


Distant Feeling

by AdamantSteve



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Telepathy, the brain fiddling in AoS made Phil kinda telepathic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil starts being able to hear people's thoughts. One particular person's thoughts are very interesting indeed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by Dunicha but fiddled about with by me afterwards! So if there's any mistakes they're on me.
> 
> For the Trope Bingo square: telepathy/mindmeld.

Phil thinks he’s just being extra intuitive when it starts happening - reading into people’s body language and tone of voice so much that he feels like he can hear their thoughts. He’d figured out May and Ward’s little thing long before May told him anything, but he chalked it up to his familiarity with May and putting two and two together. They _are_ SHIELD agents but neither of them are good at hiding how relaxed they suddenly are.

 

The first time he thinks perhaps it’s more than intuition is when he’s bending over a map on the projector console and he hears, Simmons’ voice murmur, _‘she’s so pretty’_.

 

He looks up to see Simmons staring at Skye, jumping out of her revery when she notices Phil’s attention. She smiles sheepishly at him and goes back to her work, and Skye doesn’t react to any of it, too absorbed in whatever she’s working on on her laptop.

 

Phil looks between them and frowns. “Did you say something?”

Simmons shakes her head and Phil turns back to the map, though he’s sure he can hear… somewhere… a voice saying _‘shit shit shit did I say that out loud oh god oh god.’_

 

By the time he makes it back to civilisation on land, Phil’s getting snippets of thought from all over the place. 

 

It’s only when Phil’s actually in the room with someone, and it’s always in the context of muted body language and speech patterns, like he’s suddenly the greatest cold reader in the world. He could make a fortune hustling people. It’s only particularly projected thoughts though, not a stream of consciousness but thoughts that are about other people. May thinks about Ward, Fitz thinks about Simmons and Skye, Skye seems to think about her laptop more than anything else. 

 

Phil knows what he ought to do - talk to the doctors, figure out just what it is that’s going on with him. It has to be something to do with what happened to him - robots and brain surgery and pain so intense he only remembers the shape of it. And he will, he decides. Eventually. Right now, he doesn’t want to share this with anyone, because it’s oddly comforting to have something strange going on with his brain that he’s the only one privy to.

Perhaps this whole thing was orchestrated purely so they had a telepath on the SHIELD roster. Who knows? Either way, Phil keeps it to himself.

 

-

 

 _‘You weren’t supposed to start caring about him,’_ Phil hears May think, looking as cool and unmoved as ever as Ward rolls down a rooftop onto a moving truck. She takes aim and takes out one of the goons following after him before telling Phil out loud that she’s going in.

 

It’s all wrapping up - USB stick delivered to Skye, Ward already out of harm’s way with May pretending not to care whilst privately repeating ‘ _fuck fuck fuck’_ as she presses his shoulder for breaks or sprains when Phil gets clipped by a bullet. He can hear someone else swearing in their head and has his gun raised as he opens one of the trash carts in the alleyway, ducking out of the way when a gun appears. 

 

 _‘I can’t go to prison,’_ thinks the guy, _‘oh fuck this is so bad.’_

Ward appears and clocks the guy over the back of the head with his own gun, knocking the guy back into the bin.

 

The rest of the wrap-up gets done by May, who silently curses at Phil for being such a goddamn idiot and herself for giving a crap. It’s really not bad - Phil’s more upset about his suit getting ruined than anything else, though he’s dimly aware that it’s adrenaline that’s making him feel that way. The bullet grazed the meat of his arm, and he’ll have a lot of bruising where he fell and around the wound, a big ugly scab and then a scar for a long while, but he’s had plenty of those. The warm, worried thoughts around him are strangely comforting - that his team genuinely cares about him as much as they do is a welcome surprise, though when they touch down in New York for Phil’s mandatory time off post-bullet, there are a few thoughts of pleasure at ‘Dad being out of town.’ Phil doesn’t want to know what they’re planning on getting up to without him around and consciously tries not to pick up any thoughts that detail their plans. He’d rather not know.

 

All of which is why Phil winds up back in his old office, the same but for a layer of dust and a new stack of mail in his in-box. 

 

The prevailing attitude towards him is that of surprise, which is to be expected, but there’s also a jealousy from a few people, a displeasure at Phil getting the ‘gifts’ he’s been given. 

 

It’s all stuff Phil might’ve worked out without his new talent for cold-reading, though some of the less charitable thoughts coming his way are a little hard to bear. Still, he’s been used to being Government Agent long enough to have grown a thick skin against people not liking him, it’s just odd to actually hear their dislike clear as day.

 

There’s lots to do back at base, so Phil gets on with things. He finally has the time to work on mission reports, a familiar chore that he’s rather glad to get back to. People stop by every now and again, ostensibly to welcome Phil back but judging by their actual thoughts, mostly to marvel at _‘Zombie Coulson’s_ ’ lack of visible scars. Phil doesn’t mean to, but can’t help but quietly chalk up a list of people he’s not such a big fan of anymore. 

 

It’s one such day during his second week of leave that there’s another knock on his door, and when it starts to open before Phil even says ‘come in’, he knows who it is. 

Clint Barton looks better than Phil remembers, somehow, grinning when he sees that this isn’t the lie he’s thinking it might’ve been. 

“So it’s true, you love paperwork so much you came back from the dead to do more of it,” he says, sitting in his familiar chair and putting his boots on Phil’s desk. Internally, Clint’s barely holding it together, his thoughts a stream of _‘holy fuck it’s true oh god oh god oh god.’_

Phil reaches over the desk to take a firm grip of Clint’s ankle, squeeze it once in greeting before pushing his feet off the desk. Something they’ve done countless times before, though this time, when Clint’s jolted into a sitting position, it’s joined by a soft, happy _‘oh’._

 

They spend the next hour and a half gossiping about both their teams - Clint tells Phil all about what Cap’s like when he’s not in command mode, silently admitting he sees what Phil likes about the guy, and how Stark really is as annoying as Phil always said. Phil gives his own stories, about May being beautiful to watch working again, Fitzsimmons being like the puppy version of Stark and Banner, and then arguing over which is which for a while. Clint’s full of positivity, though it’s undercut by something that Phil can’t quite place; a yearning for something that his thoughts don’t fully express, as if Clint’s not _letting_ himself think about something. 

 

When they start going over the good old days Phil realises how long they’ve been talking, and as happy as he is to keep going, he does have work to get on with. 

 _‘Bored of you again,_ ’ Clint thinks, even as he’s getting up and stealing paperclips off of Phil’s desk. 

“We could uh, get dinner. Later? If you want?” Phil says, suddenly desperate to halt that bitter thought in its tracks. He doesn’t think he could ever get bored of talking to Clint Barton.

 

Clint looks at Phil and covers up his startled internal _‘what?!’_ with a shrug. “Sure, whatever,” he says out loud. 

 

-

 

Phil goes by the range to pick Clint up for dinner at about 6, wearing the same suit he’s been wearing all day. He watches Clint shoot, which has always been something beautiful, and listens to Clint’s mental play by play. Mostly it’s a white noise, punctuated by short flashes of bright glee when he finds his target. He realises Phil’s there almost as soon as Phil comes in, but doesn’t turn or make any acknowledgement of Phil’s presence. He does think about it though, and Phil has to stifle a laugh when Clint consciously tries to do better, debates with himself over whether or not he should do something flashy. He doesn’t in the end, but Phil more than appreciates the thought. 

 

“Oh, hey,” Clint says when he’s run out of arrows, aiming for nonchalance even though his eyes widen when he catches sight of Phil’s tie in his hands. _‘You gotta be fucking kidding me.’_

 

Phil rolls up the tie and puts it in his pocket, nodding down the range at Clint’s targets. “Still as good as ever,” he says, and Clint shrugs outwardly as he beams inwardly. Most of his internal thoughts are for some reason dedicated to Phil’s tieless collar, though, and Phil’s not sure what to make of that. 

 

They keep up their conversation in the taxi and then the restaurant, and it’s wonderful to be able to talk to someone who has both the clearance level and the experience to know exactly who and what Phil’s talking about. Clint thinks the same, and it’s an equal relief that his internal dialogue is much the same as his external conversation, pleased and friendly and as snarky as always.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Phil says once they’re eating dessert. 

Clint smirks and says, “Of course you did,” even though he thinks another soft _‘oh’._

 

There’s a quiet sort of jealousy over Ward, and a prideful pleasure when Phil mentions that as good as he is, and as little as he talks back, he’s not quite as good as Clint. 

 

It’s all very pleasant, and Phil doesn’t feel too awkward about his second set of ears til the bill comes and he feels Clint’s sadness, a sudden ache that’s unexpected and painful. _‘Not a real date, stop thinking about it. Phil’s never gonna see you like that,’_ Clint thinks quietly, pushing tiramisu around his plate. Phil gasps and it makes Clint look at him in panic, so he shakes his head and plays it off like it was some kind of trapped wind or something. “This was nice,” he says. “We should do it again.” 

 

Clint grins and agrees, though the bitterness is still there. Phil can’t believe he’s never realised this was there before. He’s not sure he believes it now.

 

Phil awkwardly pats Clint on the back when they part ways - Clint’s living at the tower now, and it’s an easy walk. Clint gives a final thought to Phil’s lips, which Phil curves into a smile, which only makes Clint bite off a thought about _kissing_ him. What an idiot Phil’s been. He almost does lean in and kiss Clint, cause now that he knows they both want him to, it seems so very logical, but it wouldn’t be fair to have stolen Clint’s thoughts from him like this. 

 

Instead there’s the back-pat and a last smile before Phil hails a cab back to base. 

 

-

 

Phil toys with the idea of texting Clint - safer that way so he doesn’t accidentally listen in on Clint’s mental goings-on. But that feels like a different kind of cowardice, so he doesn’t. He waits til the next day and Clint coming by his office again to ask him to shut the door, because he has something he needs to talk about. Clint immediately thinks ‘ _fuck, he knows_ ,’ to himself, but he does as he’s asked before coming to slouch on his usual chair, all projected nonchalance despite his brain running in loops of ‘ _he’s probably fucking that cellist asshole again’_ and _‘Phil died, don’t be an asshole. I’m happy for him, I am. Be happy for him, it’s ok.’_

 

“Listen,” Phil says, leaning forward and putting his hands flat on the desk. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve not told anyone else. And it’s imperative that you keep it to yourself, is that understood?”

“Sir?”

Phil wants to soothe the worries pouring out of Clint like sand, but he needs to get this out, and he’s not sure he can if he gets distracted so soon. 

“The procedure. Uh, the. What they did to me.”

 _‘Fuckin’ medical cocksuckers,’_ Clint thinks. Phil focuses on his hands. 

“It seems to have had some side effects.” 

Clint looks at him and frowns. “Ok.” 

“My brain is… different. And I don’t know how or why, but I can…” he swallows. “My cold reading has… drastically improved.” 

Clint looks at Phil’s hands and audibly thinks this new information over. “How improved?”

“Think of a colour,” Phil says, and when Clint’s mind immediately slips into purple, adds, “not purple.” 

 

Clint narrows his eyes and then just about screams _‘yellow’,_ and it’s the first time Phil’s tested this, but it’s a surprise just how strongly he can hear him. 

“Yellow.” 

_‘oh, fuck.’_

“And you just thought ‘oh, fuck.’”

 

They stare at each other for a moment before Clint says,“huh,” and shifts in his chair. He’s going through a mental play by play of their recent meetings and very loudly thinks _‘he knows I jerked off three times since last night oh shit is he hearing this? Oh this is so bad_.’ Out loud he says, “Congratulations?” 

 

Phil takes a breath before concentrating on the edge of his desk and continuing. It shouldn’t be so hard now that he knows, but it’s still a leap. Kind of a huge one. 

“Well, the thing is. I… I felt I needed to tell you because there are some things that’ve come to my attention over the last little while and it’s not fair of me to keep them to myself.”

 

Clint looks guilty and very loudly tries to think about brick walls. 

 

“Because,” Phil goes on, “I don’t know how to turn it off, and I don’t like the sensation of listening in on things that ought to be private.”

Clint’s brick wall is broken through by a brief surge of disappointment and a short _‘humiliating’,_ and Phil has to fight the urge to launch himself across the desk to kiss such thoughts away. The idea that Clint might be amenable to things like Phil kissing him is still so foreign and terrifying, and besides, wanting something subconsciously and actually wanting it aren’t necessarily the same thing. 

 

“I’d like to take you out again,” Phil says all in a rush. As soon as he says it, Clint’s wall is replaced by bright hope that’s immediately clawed at and tamped down. “If that’s something you’d like.” 

 

Clint’s thinking about denying it, which pains Phil in some undefinable way, but he nods anyway. “Like a date?” he asks, hopeful, wary.

 

Phil allows himself a small smile. “Like a date.”

Clint bites his lip and looks at Phil with narrowed eyes as he loudly thinks, _‘with sex after?_ ’

“We’ll see what happens after,” Phil says, unable to stop himself from grinning. 

 


End file.
